Could he?
The logical part of my brain pointed out that men who weren’t interested didn’t usually cook elaborate gourmet meals and blush when you kissed them. But the louder, more persistent part—the part that still wondered why someone like Theo would want someone like me—whispered that I was setting myself up for disappointment.
Why did all of this have to be so complicated and nerve-wracking?
Why couldn’t there be some kind of manual for this, some clear set of signals that meant “yes, this is what I’m hoping for” versus “I’m just being nice and you’re reading way too much into everything”?
Why did I suddenly feel like a gangly fourteen-year-old boy realizing he had stronger feelings for another boy—one who was standing right in front of him?
I sucked in a deep breath and shook myself free of doubt’s grip.
This was my moment.
Fuck doubts.
Screw fear.
I knew how I felt about Theo. It was time to learn his truth.
Be bold or go home, a voice in my head urged.
Without another thought, I crossed the kitchen in three quick strides, wrapped my arms around his waist from behind, and spun him around to face me. Before he could say a word, before he could look surprised or flustered or do that adorable thing where he pushed his glasses up his nose, I kissed him.
Deep.
Thorough.
With all the pent-up anticipation I’d been carrying around all week.
With all the feelings I’d yet to name and might never fully understand.
He melted into me for exactly three heartbeats—long enough for me to taste the hint of wine on his lips and feel the way his body fit perfectly against mine—before he pulled away with a soft gasp.
“Jeremiah,” he breathed, and I could see the flush creeping up his neck, spreading across his cheeks and making the tips of his ears turn bright red.
“Hey you,” I said, grinning at his reaction. “Miss me?”
He made a sound that might have been a laugh—or a whimper—then spun around and bustled back to the stove, his movements quick and nervous.
“I need to . . . check the glaze,” he said, not looking at me. “It has a tendency to burn if you don’t watch it, and I’ve been working on this for hours, and if it burns now I’ll have to start over, and—”
“Theo.”
“—there’s no time to start over because you’re here now, and I wanted everything to be perfect, but—”
“Theo.”
His head slowly turned, and he finally looked at me, his glasses slightly fogged from the stove, and his face still beautifully flushed.
“Breathe,” I said gently.
He took a deep, calming breath, then another, and I watched some of the tension leave his shoulders.
“Better?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he admitted. “Sorry. I get a little . . . intense when I’m cooking.”
“A little?” I cocked an eyebrow, scanning the kitchen.
